


Pretty Boys Dont Cry

by Sinsrose



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Attempted Murder, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Drug-Induced Sex, Drugs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Forced Prostitution, Human Trafficking, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, M/M, Murder, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Past Rape/Non-con, Prostitute Dean, Prostitution, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Abuse, Underage Drinking, Underage Prostitution, Underage Sex, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-07 22:05:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4279611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sinsrose/pseuds/Sinsrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I burned by bridges so the devil couldn't follow me.”<br/>― L.M. Browning, Vagabonds and Sundries.</p><p>“When you leave, I feel like I'm alone with your demons.”― Crystal Woods, Write like no one is reading.</p><p>A fanfix for a friend based off a roleplay that became its own universe that involves human trafficking, sex, murder and lies and an underage Dean Winchester that goes by the name Green and and undercover FBI Agent named Gold.</p><p>Fanmix here- https://8tracks.com/padshiy/baby-your-love-is-a-crime#smart_id=dj:12314065</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

You breathe out the blood like it’s a second flesh. The way that it casts across tanned skin, flecked with freckles. The small brown dots drenched in the blood most days, only to be cleaned with less than gentle hands. It’s been the story of so many, the story that touches so many but is unheard of. It is a story that is not spoken about. It is the story that is passed with polaroids that have seen better days, that are stained with blood on the corners. And the days are slowly and painfully passing. Slowly passing and the clock on the wall drags by time, in painful shades of black and white and sometimes red.  
  
You see some children born into this life, some that are younger than you. You were fourteen once, you had been a child once- you had been an innocent child just going to school and coming home. But the men, the men stole everything from you. You had tried to scream, tried to run but you learned that was no use. You learned that the hard way. The way that you remain sitting in a small box that really isn’t meant for a child but children are placed into them until they no longer run. Your fingers scratching at the walls to pass time.  
  
Green eyes flecked with fear- fear it’s all they really have. Because there is nothing else that can be there. He doesn’t remember the last time he ate, he can’t remember the last time he was fed. He can’t remember the last time that he saw daylight. The way that the sun feels across his skin, it could be months. He can’t recall, considering he’s been in his small box for time that feels longer than a year sometimes.  
  
And when a hand does yank him from the darkness, it just yanks him further down.  
The leering grin of a man whom could kill him in seconds if he desired it. These aren’t  
men he’s dealing with but demons from _hell_.


	2. Chapter 2

Smile. Look pretty. Grin and bear it. Smile. Remember to _smile_ , be **charming**. It’s the words he’s been told over and over. Since he was taken off the streets. The men love it- they love someone who looks willing. But really it just makes them rougher on him. He’s lucky he’s even allowed to roam the streets, it’s a privilege after being picked up so young. But the pimps always have their eyes on him. They’re always watching him mingle and talk to a few. Not that anyone really cares, no one ever does. No one cares that you’re screaming in the slums.   
  
You learn to survive. The women are the ones that taught him more. Taught him to play nice. To dress up- to be pretty to the men. The beauty is in the eyes of the beholders, though the women tell him he got lucky that this brothel is better. That this service checks the men, makes sure they are clean- but he’s not convinced considering how dirty some of the men are and even the women. He’s seen all shades, the dirty greedy hands that touch upon children much younger than him. He hasn’t been taken to those services yet, but he has a feeling he will be taught. He knows that he will be taught. Dean knows the way that men look at him. He sees the objective desire in their eyes. The reasons not actually clear, considering the fact he’s pretty sure that the women are better here.  
  
He wants to believe they are better, and far prettier, for a number of reasons. So he remains off the radar, but many of them, many of the others that he has shared a room with or seen in the brothel speak otherwise. They speak of stories, the older girls. The teenage girls of stories of men touching people in places that make some of the younger girls cry that aren’t drugged. It’s a vicious circle, a cycle that repeats over and over for most of the girls. The Winchester just wants to tune most of it out, he wants to forget, forget that this exists, that he’s not hearing the men gamble and talk over these kids like its some candy. He wants to go home. Home is just a thought, a thought that is no longer valid considering he was taken off the streets never to be seen again by his parents.   
  
And god his parents must be doing everything to find him. Jade eyes close for another moment. Hearing voices linger by the room, the markings in the wall etched in the wall, the reminder that he is caged, that he is not free. The voices get louder, the laughter and talking evident even more so. And when a hand opens the door filtering light onto a freckled face, it’s the first time he gets a glimpse of hell. It is the first time that blood flows out of his veins, it is the first time he screams until his voice is hoarse and feels numb.  
  
It is the first time he feels blood trickle down his legs. He is only _fourteen_. Home is no longer a **place**. It is a _thought_.


End file.
